Someone
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: Even in the darkest moments, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that there was someone out there for her. It was a bit fuzzy, but she simply...knew. Someone was waiting. Belle/Rumpel-Gold. Storybrook, one-shot.


**Someone **

**DISCLAIMER: OUAT isn't mine.**

**Belle/Rumpel, Storybrook, One-shot. **

**This is dedicated and beta'ed by my lovely OldRomantic. She did a brilliant job, and I bow to her superior grammar and spelling. She enjoyed it, and I hope you do as well. Please review! **

The clay felt far better against my fingers than most things I feel at the hospital. It is a superior sensation. Better than the thin and scratchy sheets. Better than the concert brick walls of my room-_"Cell," _I acknowledge in the back of my mind-and far better than the calloused hands that grip my elbow or wrists or other appendages when being lead from my room-_"Cell,"-_to participate in showering, counseling, or art therapy sessions.

Like tonight.

Therapy always takes place in the evenings, when the upper floors of the hospital are bare of visitors or patients. Even the other nurses and doctors are scare on these bi-weekly sessions. I haven't actually seen another person outside of the small ward staff—two nurses, a man tasked with physical labor, and the woman who delivered our meals, my doctor, fellow patients (all very quiet, good ward-mates)-in years. That is, besides the lady mayor.

_Regina. _For that is what they call her here. Regina. _Queen. _

Aside from that limited group, I see no one. Not my friends (everyone has friends), not my family (people had families, too; I am positive I have a father), and not my lover (yes, that one _was _fuzzy, but I _know). _Yet, I've been apart from the world for so long it no longer makes a difference. I'm no longer really a part of it-outside life. I'm just not.

But I have my dreams. Flickers of remembrances. And my name.

"Calla"—for that is what they call me—simply doesn't fit. It is close, but, as Aaron the nurse's man, says "no cigar." I simply am not _"Calla." _It doesn't feel right. Not natural. Not….proper.

But "Belle" did.

That's what _he _calls me. In the dreams. The magnificent dreams of a far-away time, set in an evergreen valley. Tall iron mountains surround the land. Tucked between the mountainside, a circular stone castle. Where _he _resided. Where _he _sat and spun and told funny little stories.

Yes, "Belle" felt right. "Calla" does not.

They tell me my father is a florist. My father-who never visits? Is that what fathers do? Somehow I don't think so. But I can barely recall.

The woman who instructs the art therapy calls the group to attention, showing them how to handle the wheel, methods for shaping the clay, etc. "Okay, Miss French, I'm going to start the wheel now. Are you ready?"

Never taking my eyes from the lump of red clay, I nod. There is a soft _"click" _and the machine starts. My hands go along with the motion, bringing the material to rise in one splendid tower. The hum of machinery is comfortable, easy to lose yourself in. I begin to think. Always a dangerous occupation.

_"The wheel?...It helps me forget."_

_ "Forget what?" _

_ "…I guess it worked. Hm!"_

At that, I had burst out in laughter. He'd been lying, naturally, but nevertheless, the remark was amusing. Five months in that dreary-

The wheel comes to a grinding halt when my hands fumble and the vase crumples back into a lumpy blob of clay. I blink, starting at my terracotta stained hands. The instructor rushes to my side. Blandly, I remove my foot from the pedal.

"What happened? Did you mess up?" she asks kindly.

"Oh, I…." Her kind eyes have put me off. It's been ages since I've seen warmth in the depth of one's soul. "Yes. Sorry."

"Not a problem," she assures me. "Do you want to try again?"

"Yes, please."

Clay repositioned, I tap the pedal again. Once more, the tower builds. I run a flat slide along the sides to scrape them smooth. Another half-hour passes, and the vase is properly formed. I stand back to examine.

"Lovely." The instructor declares.

I suppose it is. Personally, the feeling of clay beneath my nails, crusting of orange on my skin, the milky-rust film on my nails…those are the lovely things. I resist washing my hands for several hours.

**-XXX-**

We move on to painting. Twice a week, I pick up paint and pallet and stand before a canvas. At first, I am uncertain, scared to mar the pure white surface. Blanks have always been frightful to me. Yet, with so many in my own mind, I ought to be used to overcoming them. Settled with this insight, I begin.

At the beginning, it is just the colours I experiment with. I enjoy squeezing the blobs of pure pigment out of metal tubes, blending and mixing on the flat plastic. It's fun, harmless, and requires little planning or thought, just feeling.

Then I set about adding depth. The instructor circles the wide room, aiding the students in turn, and when she stops to examine my canvas, she tilts her head. Long pauses follow before a quiet "_Interesting." _

And it was. Mountains, a pine forest, a glittering summer's lake, and a sky filled with fire. But there, overlooking the electric waters, a tall fortress.

Next I paint curtains. Then, the instructor's worried nature sets the class on still life depictions of common fruits-apples, oranges, the like. I comply, but slip a garnet-coloured rose into the bowl of my piece, tucked between the grapes. She doesn't comment. We return to painting our imaginations.

But it's not long after this that our art therapy nights are cancelled. We no longer go out at all in the evenings.

This disappoints me greatly. But I am used to having things I appreciate taken away. It's just a part of residing here—because that's all that goes on in this ward. No one lives. Just exists.

**-XXX-**

The day comes when we are found. Someone-I'll never know who, exactly-heard the screams from the basement. The ward of "incurably mental" patients is dissolved after a full inspection. Nothing was, the others whisper, up to code. We were moved. None of the community knew of our existence. Even those with family members as patients had thought their loved one was sent to Boston, Baltimore, or some other big city it was easy to lose a person in. The papers gave weak explanations, but it is useless. Impressions have been made.

It is quickly determined that we're not necessarily dangerous or violent. Perhaps off, but not mad.

We are, as a unit, moved to a new place-some sort of live-in clinic. It's filled with elderly. We're given a separate wing and told examinations would begin shortly. That would determine where we would go after.

For the first time in years, I can dine with others, freely roam the building I live in, go outdoors. There is a fenced garden free for our use, with a lot of trees and flowers and a little goldfish pond. Many of my days are spent out here, making up for lost time spent in the cell. The nurses escort me out, sometimes bringing me water, or showing me interesting nature-things.

It is here I talk with Mabel. She is another patient at the live-in, one of the older ones. In her mid-nineties, with fluffy grey hair, shuffling feet, and sharp cheek bones jutting out from wrinkled flesh, she is a proud creature. We met over dinner, one night, when she yelled across the table for the pepper pot. She plays bridge every morning, watches General Hospital mid-day, and spends her afternoons in the gardens. With me. She, unlike many other residents, makes no remarks on my mental status. Just as I say nothing of her catheter.

Mabel has a keen sense of humor.

"Is that you Callie, of that lesbian nurse Shelia?" she hollers across the yard, when seeing me for the first time after my dramatic haircut.

"Me," I assure her. "Calla. And I don't think Shelia would appreciate that much. I think her hair is rather cute."

"Yeah, yeah. So, why the change?" she peers at me through rheumy eyes. "I mean, I _do _like it."

My hair just barely brushes my jaw. It's the shortest cut I've ever had. I feel reasonably brave.

"It was time." I say simply.

"Yeah," Mabel replies, assessing me. "Yeah, it was, wasn't it?"

We start eating dinner together. It's convenient to eat with Mabel, as she's perfectly willing to bully those who attempt to take "our spot" before the widescreen TV. I'm far too timid. Every evening, six o'clock, we sit before the TV. Mabel's commentary is very amusing. I don't recall much of television before the basement ward. I don't recall much of anything.

This suits Mabel fine. She is eager to teach me of the world and all of life.

"Go out and do things before you're like me-get drunk at the beach, climb a mountain, learn to bicycle."

"Don't ever go by what he says-watch what he does."

"You can always tell by the hands. No amount of plastic surgery can fix the hands. They're the truest sign of age."

She gave this advice sagely, at random intervals. I found these pearls interesting, if not helpful.

"Why do you tell me all this?" I ask her.

"Oh, sweetie. One day, soon, I hope, you'll be out of this place. Or I'll be dead. But, as things go, it's clear you don't know a flying lick of the world."

Unfortunately, she is right. My psych evaluations have been slow, but my doctor-Dr. Hooper, a fidgety, stumbling sort of fellow-assures me that the matter of my future was soon to be resolved. My only fear is "_how?" _If found to be competent, if they discharge me, where shall I go? To my absent father? Or to the streets?

I do not voice these fears to Mabel, nor does she sense them.

We're on a walk through the garden when Mabel shows me the roses. She was once a prize-winning gardener, who was especially good with the prickly plants. With great pride, she names off the variety of blooming vines and bushes-Don Juans, Amber Flush, the Parson's Pink China and Tea roses, Maiden Blush, Charles deMills, Autumn Damask, Comte de Chambond, Noisettes, Buff Beauty, Penelope, Hansas, Memoriams, and Austins. The selection is overwhelming. Amber Flush quickly becomes my favourite, seconded by the dark red damasks.

Watching Mabel coo over the flowers, I can see that she still has a passion for them, just as she has a passion for _Wheel of Fortune_, and giving Important Life Advice. Passion I envy. I'm yet to find any strong attachments to anything.

Everyday we go to see the roses, providing there is no rain. Mabel regales me with tales of her youth (particularly the ones involving gardens or gardening awards). I'm falling into yet another routine. But this is not one I mind. My life here isn't perfect. But it's not bad, far better than before. One cannot hope for more progress than that.

But the day does come when the final verdict on the matter of my future is issued. In his cramped wood-paneled office, Dr. Hooper kindly informs me that I have been found to be in _"ideal mental health." _There is nothing wrong with me. They don't know why I was locked away, or who did it, but whoever diagnosed me was a fool. I am free. Free to go home.

Doctor Hooper mistakes my tears for relief. I don't bother in correcting him.

I am told that someone would come for me Thursday-two days from now. At dinner, I tell Mabel over our pudding. Simultaneously pleased and disappointed, she sucks in her breath before patting my hand.

"I'll visit," I promise. "Whenever I can."

"You better."

Thursday morning, I pack my meager belongings. There is no one besides Mabel to say my farewells to. The others are jealous. I cannot blame them in the least.

My nurse releases me to the gardens at three o'clock. I go instantly to the roses. Alone.

I've no clue who is coming to collect me. Twisting my hands, I pace. The nurses say three-thirty. Soon. Soon. Who? Will they be late? Early? Oh, to be late would only serve to make me more nervous. Is it my father? I…they didn't say it was him. Surely not?

To calm myself, I plop down on the grass, surrounded by fragrant blossoms. The sky is a little overcast. But there is sun. A tempered breeze lazily floats through, mussing up my carefully arranged hair, and sending ripples through the fabric of my peach-coloured day dress. Mabel said it set off my skin nicely. I like it well enough.

The breeze continues to move my hair. The newly shorn strands tickle. I sigh. Oh, bad news mustn't come on a nice day. It would be a painful contradiction.

Raising my fingertips to brush the petals of one pink bloom, the soft lips kiss my flesh like a caressing lover. I close my eyes.

_"Don't kiss me!...No one can ever love me!"_

_ "No one can ever-"_

_ "No one can ever-"_

Leaves lightly crackle under approaching footfalls. My eyes snap open, but I do not turn. The moment strikes me as pivotal. Yet, I cannot draw my eyes from the flower. Not just yet.

The footsteps halt beside me. I can feel a gentle heat being radiated against my back. No voices sound. Even the birds have quieted. For a long moment-silence. The constant character of my life. The actor who is never credited.

_"Don't be __Father,"_ I think desperately, as though mere wishing has ever helped anyone. But if not my father, then who? _"Somebody…"_

Because there is _someone_. Someone I'm meant to see. It's all fuzzy, but I know it. The angular silhouette, a pair of expressive and wide eyes-someone.

I let my fingertips fall from the rose, releasing a breath with it. Behind me a soft sound echoes. Not quite a sigh. And it's then that I dare to look.

He's not quite what I had planned on expecting. The skin is off, as are the pressed trousers and pinstripes. But the overwhelming emotion flashing in the eyes is all too right. Nervous, hopeful, gentle, sad. He opens his mouth, shuts it, then tries again.

"Calla?" he asks uncertainly.

I shift to sit on my knees. Though hesitant, I lift my hands to touch his, both of which rest on a silver-topped cane. They quiver. Like a bird. Like butterfly wings. Like the heart of a scared child.

"Belle," I say simply. "Just Belle, please."

**-XXX-**

**Romantic says many of you will be angry with me, and will insist that I add a sequel. I'm not sure about that, but if you're starved for OUAT, I've got several more one-shots on the way, and there are many, many more wonderful on this site. Check 'em. And, if you're an FB addict and would like to share in the Rumpel love or just get behind-the-scenes info ASAP, check out the OUAT Fan Community group. It's filled with amazing fellow fans. **

**Please review! **


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